


Never at You

by skyremains



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Bicycles, Cuddling, M/M, Newspapers, Really quite a lot of anger, Slash, Tea, Walking, parks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyremains/pseuds/skyremains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to contain his anger and fails miserably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never at You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Valeria2067 and her prompt about Rage!John.

A loud crackling announced that Sherlock had turned the page of his newspaper. Finally, thought John. He’d been staring at that one damn article for an hour. It was starting to drive him mad. Leave it to Sherlock to find a way to silently read rudely. John half-turned behind him to glance at Sherlock, reposed on the couch with the newspaper pulled impossibly close to his face. He huffed quietly to himself as he wondered how long he’d spend on this one. John tried to turn his attention back to the telly, but Sherlock’s utter silence was so…distracting. He glanced behind him again in annoyance. God, he wished he’s just do something. Anything. No one needed an hour to read one article in the Times. When an eleven-year old could power through in three, it should take Sherlock no more than a minute. Well, Sundays were usually pretty quiet, he admitted to himself. John never worked the surgery, and it was Lestrade’s one day off in the week, so unless they were on an urgent case to begin with, a new call was unlikely.

Which was a bit of a relief to John right now. The last case, which Sherlock had wrapped up two days ago, had John actually crawling through almost a mile of the underground sewers. Sewers, for Christ’s sake! And at the end of it, not only had he found nothing, Sherlock saw fit to announce that the effort had been futile, and the man they were looking for was much more likely to be hiding out somewhere along the train tracks. The outdoor, dramatically cleaner, sewage-free train tracks. Just another case with Sherlock, he supposed, but sometimes…

But there was nothing they could hope for to draw them out of this apartment and away from the paper and the telly today. Just the lazy afternoon and the crinkling of pages and the meaningless chattering of some painted presenter. God, Sherlock must be so…bored.

Christ, thought John. He turned around again, panicked, and looked at his friend’s gaze more closely. It could’ve burned two holes right through the newsprint. He scrambled to his feet.

“What’re you even doing?” asked John loudly, crashing through the room’s stillness.

“Waiting,” said Sherlock, without breaking his trance.

“For what?” John asked slowly.

“My experiment.”

“What. Experiment?” asked John, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“The one where I see how long it takes you to discover what’s in the tea kettle,” said Sherlock with a very faint smile.

“Till I did what?” spluttered John.

“You did remarkably well, I must say.”

“That’s it,” declared John. “Up you get?”

Sherlock slowly turned his head to face him. “What?”

“You, up, get. We’re going.”

Sherlock neatly folded the paper into his lap. “Going where? We have nowhere to go.”

“Exactly. So you’re going to come outside with me right now before you find a way to incinerate that paper or have another go at Mrs. Hudson’s wall again. She’ll very probably kill me this time, so I’m not having a dangerously bored you.”

Sherlock tightened his lips. “And what, exactly, is out there that could possibly satisfy me right now? Planning a murder, John?”

“Don’t be daft,” said John, crossing his arms, “but we could go for a walk. It’s something!” he said to the particularly skeptic look on Sherlock’s face. “Unless you’re confident in your ability to make that newspaper last the rest of the day. I mean, you might, at the pace you were going, but how long can you keep that up before you drive yourself mad?”

The look Sherlock shot at him could’ve solved their problem and murdered John there and then. But John wasn’t having it. He just raised his eyebrows curiously and waited for a response. Not that it mattered what he said. They were both bored out of their minds, which in Sherlock’s case….well…and John was just annoyed, not to mention cramped, so much so that if he didn’t get so fresh air out in the open soon, he might feel his own artistic urges for a smiley face on the wall. He may not be able to give Sherlock what he needed right now, but he could at least try. For both their sakes.

Sherlock studied him before glancing back to his paper. His very…thin paper. “Fine,” he said quietly without looking up. “We can go for a…walk.” The way he said it sounded like he was asking him to visit a slaughterhouse rather than a grassy park, but John was not about to back down.

“Good,” he said forcefully. “Get your coat.”

Sherlock blinked up at him. “Oh, yes, sir. It seems I do as you command. May I bring my scarf as well, sir? Is that in your glorious agenda for the day?”

Nope, no, no. John shut his eyes and inhaled slowly. He was already annoyed, and he was absolutely not going to let Sherlock get to him today. No way.

“Do what you want Sherlock,” he said a little too calmly. “I’ll be waiting downstairs.” He hopped down two steps before he stopped and shouted back, “WHAT is in the kettle Sherlock?”

“Do you honestly want to know?”

No, thought John, I really don’t right now. He pinched the bridge of his nose again and carried on downstairs without replying.

Sherlock took his time, leaving John to lean against the outside doorframe, quietly fuming. They were going to take a walk, and they were going to enjoy it, dammit. He wasn’t going to let Sherlock ruin this as well.

“Come on,” he grumbled when Sherlock finally appeared. They took off down the road. If Sherlock thought that John might be setting an unusually fast pace, he didn’t comment on it. They simply walked side by side in silence.

John headed in the direction of the park, and Sherlock never asked where they were going to. Of course he didn’t, thought John. He bloody well knows. Knows what I ate, what I did, what I’m thinking before I’ve even bloody thought it. Good.

“Gah,” he mumbled under his breath in frustration. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed carefully, but otherwise, he gave no reaction.

They continued to walk, or rather, march, in silence even after they reached the park. John stared straight ahead as his thoughts raced faster and faster, climbing higher in pitch. He was so wrapped up—remembering every little time Sherlock left a body part with the food, nearly got them killed, said the worst possible thing in the worst possible moment, every day of their lives together, all the god damn time—he was so wrapped up in this that he didn’t see them coming.

Two kids—that’s what they were really, John noted later, just kids—came barreling along one of the side paths on their bikes and slammed directly into Sherlock.

Even John stumbled a bit in the impact. The two boys remained upright, but Sherlock was flung to the ground. He turned over slightly with a quiet, “Oof..”

For a still second, John was frozen between moments. He glanced between Sherlock, lying there on the ground, seemingly all right but nevertheless on the ground, and the two boys—teens, really, but rough types, donned in skull caps and low pants and whatever it was kids thought made them appear tough rather than looking like their parents had a lot of money to waste on clothes—the two boys on their bikes who were staring down at Sherlock with unfazed faces, feet on their pedals, about to take off…

“Where. The. FUCK. Do you think you’re going?” John shouted, throwing himself in front of the boy in front’s bike.

“Man, chill,” he laughed nervously, “sorry, okay?” He made another move to pedal away, but he didn’t get very far. John slammed his hands down on the handlebars of his bike, lifting it up a few inches off the ground.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t just fucking floor it through a park like its your own god damn back yard. You DON’T,” he threw the bike to the ground again, causing the boy to stumble off, “not look where you’re going. YOU DO NOT FUCKING KNOCK PEOPLE OVER, and you especially DON’T TAKE OFF WITHOUT FUCKING APOLOGIZING AND ACTUALLY GIVING A SHIT. Do you really just not care? You just fucking hit a man and you don’t even sodding care? Who bloody raised you? I mean, Christ!”

John made a move toward the kid again, who pulled back shakily. “WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?” he shouted.

“John,” interrupted a quiet voice. Sherlock’s. He’d almost forgotten he was actually there. John whipped his head around and looked at him. He was still crouched on the ground but was looking up at John in a set and calm manner. “John,” he repeated again quietly.

He turned back to the boys and looked at them. The one in the back was staring up at him with wide eyes, and the one in the front, the one who he’d damn near thrown off his bike was hunched over, silent tears glinting in his eyes.

Shit, thought John. He exhaled and lowered his shoulders.

“Go. Go on, get out of here,” he said softly. “And just…” he waved his hand, “watch where you’re going, all right?”

The boys didn’t need telling twice. They scrambled onto their bikes and took off very quickly indeed in the opposite direction.

John sighed again before crouching down and offering Sherlock a hand. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, accepting John’s hand and rising to his feet. He dusted off his coat before looking carefully at John. “Are you?”

John looked off in the direction the boys had disappeared into. “I don’t know,” he said.

Sherlock took a step closer to him. “Come on,” he murmured, “back to Baker Street, I think.”

John nodded. The walk back was just as silent but the pace much less frenzied. Somewhere along the way, John couldn’t be certain when, his breathing started to hitch, and Sherlock wordlessly slipped an arm around the crook of his elbow. John accepted the gesture without comment and did not withdraw until they were home.

Inside, John threw his coat down on the floor, slumped onto the sofa and buried his head in his hands. He heard Sherlock follow him, and after a moment, felt the sofa dip as Sherlock sat beside him.

John did not raise his head, and after a moment, Sherlock laid a tentative hand on his back. John sighed. “I don’t know what that was.”

Sherlock nodded. “You were quite angry.”

“Well, yeah,” said John, “They could’ve seriously hurt you.”

Sherlock looked down but left his hand where it was. “I didn’t mean with them, John. You’ve been close to bursting all afternoon. It was no secret how angry you’ve been with me.”

“With…you? Sherlock,” John turned and looked at him. “No, Sherlock, I—!” He exhaled sharply then carefully took Sherlock’s other hand in his own. “All right, I suppose I’ve been rather…annoyed by some of your…quirks lately—”

“Diplomatically put,” interrupted Sherlock, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

“Yes, all right,” said John. “Living here, this life, with you, it’s…not easy. I won’t lie about that. But, Sherlock, you must know, I wouldn’t give it up,” it and you, “for anything. Do you understand me?” Sherlock nodded. “Those boys, well, they could’ve hurt you, and I guess…”  
“You ‘let loose’ on them, as they say,” finished Sherlock.

“Exactly,” said John, leaning back into the sofa. He took a few breaths before Sherlock leaned back and joined him.

“I’m…sorry,” whispered John, “but I meant it. I could never get angry like that with you. I’ll never want to leave this, Sherlock. Not this life, and not you. I promise.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but after a moment, he did bring his head down to rest on John’s shoulder.

They stayed like that for quite some time, interlaced, and breathing together.


End file.
